The Bone Yard (9 page)

"Come on, we haven't got much time," Abe Bernstein said agitatedly. "Let's wrap it up."

The three of them were meeting in his office at the Gold Rush. It was risky, but his two companions were familiar faces in the hotel and casino. They could pass unnoticed in the mounting chaos going on outside his door, and it was safer now to have them visit him in person than to talk their business on the phones, which Frank Spinoza would no doubt be monitoring.

They were relatively safe for the moment, but Abe Bernstein still felt a sense of urgency. He had delegated much of his responsibility in clearing out the Gold Rush to his underlings, but he would have to let himself be seen around the premises or run the risk of bringing down suspicion on himself.

And that, at this precarious stage, could be disastrous.

Across the desk from Bernstein, his companions had the air of generals on the eve of an invasion — confident, but with a sort of tension, an expectancy about them that was thinly veiled. Jack Goldblume, patriarch of the Las Vegas Daily Beacon and a friend for over forty years, was slender, seventy, and looking fit from daily workouts in his private gym. And, Bernstein knew, from private workouts with a sleek succession of young would-be show girls in his bedroom. Decades after they were separated in a widely celebrated falling-out, old Jack was still his good right hand, still handling the press whenever Bernstein needed a kind word-or a gaff delivered to his enemies.

The media would play a crucial role across the next few hours and days as all the pieces fell into their designated slots. Abe Bernstein meant his version of the story to be first out on the wire; whatever followed would be running second best.

On Goldblume's right sat Harry Thorson, bearing strong resemblance to a troll decked out in Western gear, with patterned sequins on his jacket and a snakeskin band encircling his roll-brim Stetson. His face was deeply tanned, like ancient saddle leather, with a paler knife scar staggering from the corner of his right eye to the jowl, now flabby and gone soft with time.

A Texas native, Thorson came to Vegas close behind Abe Bernstein in the forties. Texan lawmen sought his extradition on a range of charges that included homicide, extortion and a host of others. But strategic contributions to the reelection efforts of an understanding governor had kept him safe and sound inside Nevada while the statutes ran and legal deadlines passed unnoticed. The Alamo Casino, down the gulch from Bernstein's Gold Rush, was a living monument to Thorson's gratitude; the understanding governor, retired now, and a host of relatives were permanently on the payroll.

The aging cowboy still had muscle in Las Vegas and up north, around the capital at Carson City.

They would have need of those political connections soon, before the battlesmoke had settled in Las Vegas.

"The PR'S covered, Abe," Jack Goldblume said. "Whichever way it goes..."

"It better only — go one way, Jack," Harry Thorson interjected.

"It'll go," Abe Bernstein told them both. "I've got our people on the job already. When New York checks in, we'll help them feel at home."

"That's some room service," Thorson chortled. "Tuck 'em in and put their ass to sleep. I love it."

Goldblume shifted uneasily in his chair.

"We have to be especially careful," he reminded no one in particular. "I can keep a lid on what goes down inside here — maybe I can keep the lid on — but if anything slops over to the streets..."

"Don't give yourself an ulcer, Jack. Let's take it as it comes." Bernstein turned to Harry Thorson. "What's the word from Carson City?"

Thorson shrugged.

"Whispers, rumbles — you know the route. No one's gonna miss Spinoza or the rest of them, but natcherly they can't come out and say so for the record. If Frankie and his crew should turn up missing — well, I get the feeling that there won't be any posses tearing up the countryside to find 'em."

Thorson's message was not lost on Bernstein.

The law could not assist them, but it would not interfere as long as it could look the other way discreetly.

And Abe Bernstein was the soul of discretion.

"Fair enough," he said. "We'll have to clean it up ourselves, and keep it clean."

"How many guns they bringing?" Harry asked.

Bernstein shrugged distractedly.

"I haven't got a head count yet. Let's figure somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty."

Goldblume whistled softly to himself.

"That's an army," he said.

Bernstein raised a curious eyebrow.

"Getting nervous, Jack?" he asked.

Goldblume turned indignant.

"Hell, no. I just hate to see it come so far and then run out of steam."

"We're ready, Jack. Believe it. You just mind the headlines and stand clear."

"Sure, Abe, I just thought..."

"Don't think, Jack. It'll get you into trouble."

Goldblume looked hurt and Bernstein quickly moved to salve his old friend's wounded feelings.

"Listen, I'll be counting on your series to provide the background for some sudden disappearances. You up for it?"

The newsman nodded, making a show of self-assurance.

"Another day or two, at most — the Sunday supplement, for sure. We'll have it on the stands before Spinoza and the others turn up missing."

"Fine. We'll let the locals give you credit for a cleaner Vegas."

"What about New York? Chicago?" Goldblume asked. "Those boys won't take it lying down."

Abe Bernstein's voice turned hard as tempered steel.

"Then let 'em take it bending over."

Harry Thorson chuckled appreciatively as Abe pushed ahead.

"Once we have the town sewed up, they'll all be on the outside, looking in. They don't have guts enough to kill the golden goose. We're sitting on the biggest gold mine in the country. If they want a little piece of what we've got, they'd better ask real nice."

"Forget the nice," Thorson interjected. "They better get down on their goddamn knees and beg."

Abe Bernstein smiled. They were together once again, the shadow — doubts defeated, driven back into a corner. He checked his watch.

"I've gotta shake a leg. You both know what to do?"

"No sweat," the cowboy answered. "It's in the bag, Abe."

Bernstein glanced at Goldblume, received a jerky nod of confirmation.

"Well, then, let's get on it. I've got a plane to meet. They all rose, and he shook the hand of each man in turn."

"I'll see you back here for the main event?"

"Damn right," Thorson beamed. "I wouldn't miss..."

"I'll be here," Goldblume promised, but he sounded considerably less enthused than Thorson by the prospect.

Bernstein saw them out and closed the office door behind them. He would give them time to clear the premises before he made another round to supervise the mass evacuation under way. No point in taking any chances, with victory so close now that he could taste it. He was concerned about Jack Goldblume.

All those years behind a desk had taken something out of him — the old vitality, the nerve. Perhaps when they were finished Jack would get it back. If not.

Well, newsmen were expendable.

And old friends?

Yes. Them, too.

Abe Bernstein was about to realize a dream he had been cherishing for thirty years and more. Revenge required precision planning and the father of Las Vegas had devoted three decades to winning back the empire that was rightly his. Spinoza and his kind had ruled the roost for too damn long already.

It was time for them to settle up their debts. In blood.

He was ready to unleash a crimson river on the streets — a desert flash flood that would sweep the city clean of that Italian scum. His city, sure — and never mind Jack Goldblume's seeming lack of nerve. If they were able to contain their action at the Gold Rush, fine. If not — no matter.

Bernstein did not seek publicity, by any means, but if it came... He was the father of Las Vegas, dammit, and he had the right — the bounden duty — to defend the city he had done so much to build. The people of Las Vegas — his people — would salute him if they knew what he was doing. He was cleaning up Las Vegas and if he should turn a profit in the process... well, so much the better. It was the American way, and who was more deserving than himself?

He was a goddamn civic hero. They owed him something, all of them, for what he had accomplished — and for what he was about to do. Especially that.

He was disposing of the Mafia, relieving Vegas of a plague. And later, when the dust had settled, he would deal with Seiji Kuwahara and his Eastern imports, too.

First the plague and then the yellow fever.

Bernstein chuckled to himself feeling better already, younger than he had in years. He had been working toward this moment all his life, and now that it was here the savior of Las Vegas knew that he was ready.

Abe Bernstein left his office, moving eagerly to meet the future that was waiting for him.

Lucy Bernstein slipped a twenty to the cabbie as she disembarked a block short of the Gold Rush entrance. Limousines stood two deep at the curb, obstructing traffic regally, and Lucy spied a charter bus idling on the nearest side street.

The sidewalk all around the bus and limousines was clotted with a press of tourists dragging luggage, red-coated bellboys weaving in among them, offering assistance where they could and pocketing the rare last chance gratuities.

She made her way upstream against the human current, finally gained the glass revolving doors and spent another moment jostling faceless strangers, being shoved and elbowed more than once before she made it to the lobby proper.

Inside, the hotel lobby was a larger replay of the sidewalk scene she had just witnessed. Ranks of angry guests were crowding up against the registration desk, all jabbering in unison at two beleaguered clerks, demanding refunds, glowering at the promises of other rooms in comparable hotels. One of the patrons, florid faced and beefy in a garish flowered shirt, had to be restrained by uniformed security from hurdling the counter and extracting his deposit from the cash drawer. Lucy veered away from the confusion, almost colliding with a Kansas-farmer type, his wheat-blond wife and stair-step children strung out single file behind him, all intent on plowing through the crowd toward freedom and the street outside. She moved across the lobby, searching for her grandfather amid the chaos.

Fifteen minutes passed before she spotted him.

She saw his white hair bobbing like a fleck of sea foam on the surging human tide. He moved with easy self-assurance through the crush — here speaking gently to an agitated guest, there giving orders to an employee. Lucy approached him, reaching out to touch him on the shoulder.

He turned to face her, smiling — and she saw the plasticized expression falter for an instant as he made the recognition. He took her by the arm and steered her in the direction of his office.

"Lucy... what on earth... What brings you out here on a night like this?"

"Like what?" she asked. "What's going on around here, grandpa?"

Bernstein spread his hands and smiled expansively.

"We're looking at some trouble with the culinary workers. Some damn thing about the pension plan. They're walking out at midnight, and we're putting up our guests at other places till it all blows over."

Lucy was confused.

"A wildcat strike? I haven't heard a thing about it at the paper."

"It came at us out of nowhere. Who can figure unions?"

They had reached the office and he ushered her inside. The closing door cut off the babble from the lobby.

"So, Lucy, would you like a soft drink? Or some wine?" He looked embarrassed. "I keep forgetting that you're not a little girl."

"No, thanks."

"Well, then... what can I do for you?"

She was hesitant now, nervous, having second thoughts about her presence at the Gold Rush.

"If you're too busy now... I could come back another time."

"Too busy for my one and only grandchild. Never, Lucy. Tell me what you need."

"Some answers, grandpa."

He smiled, but with a hint of caution now.

"Ali. The journalist."

"I don't know how to ask you this..."

"The simplest way is usually best. So, ask."

"How well do you know Frank Spinoza?"

"Frank?"

Did she imagine the surprise behind his eyes, the ripple of uneasiness that spread like fleeting pallor underneath his sunlamp tan? No. It was there.

"We work together, Lucy," he was saying. "You know that. I guess you'd say I work for him."

"I've always wondered how that happened, grandpa. I mean, how Spinoza wound up running the hotel and everything you built from scratch."

Another flicker there behind the slick facade, but quickly hidden now, before she had a chance to name it.

"These things happen, Lucy. Businessmen run into trouble... Spinoza and his people helped me out, and in return I got myself some partners."

"Who exactly are Spinoza's people?"

"Eastern businessmen, some bankers, some..." He hesitated, spread his hands and shook his head. "I'm not about to tell you lies. Some of them... well... you hear these stories. Truth is, there are stories people tell about your grandpa, too, from the old days."

Lucy could not meet his eyes now. When she answered him her voice was soft, subdued.

"I've heard them."

"So?" He ruffled fingers through his snowy hair. "You see the horns? Smell brimstone? Lucy, every man has done some things he's not too proud of. Maybe if I had the chance to go back fifty, sixty years, I'd do some things a little differently." He hesitated, pinned her with a searching stare. "I can't go back, Luce. Nobody can. What's done is done."

"And what's about to happen?"

He frowned.

"Now you're talking riddles."

"Grandpa, there are stories, rumors... Are you planning something?"

"Something? Lucy..."

"With Frank Spinoza? Or against him... I don't know..."

His voice was on the razor's edge of anger when he spoke again.